


Splintered

by Magz (sparklepocalypse)



Series: The Worst Case Scenario 'Verse [2]
Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-09
Updated: 2015-08-09
Packaged: 2018-04-13 15:51:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4528074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparklepocalypse/pseuds/Magz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spike wakes up on the third day but doesn't realize the extent of his injuries until the fourth.  Sequel to "Cracked."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Splintered

Spike wakes up on the third day but doesn't realize the extent of his injuries until the fourth. "My leg," he says, "where the fuck is my leg?" They're his first words since the fight, and Angel just smiles a bit when he hears them. Any speech is better than the suffocating silence he's been subjected to.

"It's inside a rotting dragon's corpse somewhere," Angel says. "Drink this." He shoves a cup of lukewarm blood - bovine, they can't attract attention with any fancy animals right now - into Spike's hand and looks at him in a way that would almost be blank if it weren't for the slight glint of concern in his eyes.  
  
Spike looks right back at Angel. "Well, go get it then. Slap it back on nice and hard and it'll stick good."  
  
"I can't."  
  
The empty cup is set firmly on the nightstand. "Why not?" Spike demands.  
  
Angel picks up the cup, carries it to the sink, and rinses it out. "We're running from Wolfram and Hart. They're still after us. Right now we're in a motel in the middle of Wyoming, and your leg is in Los Angeles."  
  
"Guess we're gonna have to turn around, then," Spike says. "I still got my arms. I can distract 'em while you rescue the rest of me." He doesn't ask about the others. He knows that if they'd survived they'd be here, with them, hiding in this stuffy hotel room with its tiny bed and scratched-up furniture and water stains on the ceiling tiles.  
  
He also knows that if he lets himself realize that he's not getting his leg back, he's probably going to break down in a thousand thousand pieces on the mauve paisley bedspread and drown in his own tears.  
  
He thinks he might punch Angel if he hears one more heavy-burdened, downtrodden sigh, because he's the one who's gonna look ridiculous getting from place to place. "Badass vampires don't hop!" he says as a last-ditch effort.  
  
"We'll make you a pegleg," Angel offers. "It'll give you advantage when you go looking for trouble. People will feel bad for you."  
  
"Do you?" Spike looks down at the ugly stump; reaches out to touch it but draws his hand back at the last minute. Toothmarks, he thinks. There's toothmarks where my leg used to be.  
  
"Do I what?" Angel's staring at him blankly.  
  
"Feel bad for me."  
  
"No."  
  
Spike sort of wishes he would.

They stop in Chicago and rent a room in a trashy hotel.  
  
Three in the morning, and a loud knocking at the door is accompanied by a crash as it flies off of its hinges. The room is quickly stormed by mercenaries that used to work for Angel.  
  
He kills them all, quickly and efficiently, dumps them in a heap outside the door with necks broken, and goes back to sleep in the bathtub. The bed's not big enough for the both of them.  
  
Angel likes to think his refusal to share a bed with Spike is because of his injury, because he thrashes and snores, because the last time he slept within five feet of the younger vampire he found himself bound and gagged while William ran around Romania and had himself a merry old time. He doesn't like to think that it might be because he's punishing himself and not allowing himself even inadvertent, innocent contact with someone else's skin.

Spike doesn't ask Angel about his avoidance of physical contact, and Angel doesn't ask Spike what's been making him scream himself awake every night when the clock reads 3:07 am. Angel doesn't bother to tell him that he, himself, hasn't slept since he woke up in the cave. Spike pretends not to notice.

 

Halfway across Pennsylvania, Spike starts to hum.

He doesn't stop until Angel gags him with a pair of socks and some duct tape in New Jersey.

When Angel pulls the tape off and Spike spits the socks out three hours later, they're in New York City. Angel wonders what they're doing in a place where they can so easily be found. He looks over at Spike, who is rubbing tape residue off his cheeks and is grinning like an idiot.

It irritates Angel, just a little bit.

"What the hell are you so happy about?" he snipes.

Spike is practically bouncing in his seat. "Every time I come to New York, I change my look. Pull over."

Angel does.

An hour later, Spike gets into the car, wearing torn and faded baggy jeans that hug his hips and thighs, a hooded sweatshirt with an anarchy symbol on the front, and three new silver rings. His hair is black and streaked with red, standing up at all angles. There's a brand-new piercing adorning his scarred brow. His left foot is in a scuffed-up Doc Marten [he tosses the right one in the backseat for 'safe-keeping'].

Angel looks horrified.

Then he feels in his back pocket for his wallet. His empty back pocket.

Sometimes Angel wonders what the Powers That Be would do to him if he killed Spike after going to all that trouble to save him.


End file.
